


Brand New Moves

by flyingisland



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Lapdance, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Lingerie, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Post Canon - No Spoilers, Shiro comes home to a kinky surprise, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 09:18:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9649472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingisland/pseuds/flyingisland
Summary: Did Keith want to reward him, or punish him? He’s starting to feel like it’s a little bit of both.





	

“You’re getting kind of old, _Shirogane_ ,” is the first thing that Keith tells him as he enters the room. “Don’t you think it’s about time to _shake things up_?”

The lights are low, casting the room in a soft, smoky pink. Shiro suspects that it might be sheer, rosy plastic over the lightbulbs, and far too much incense for their fire alarms not to be firing away without—he suspects with a narrowing of his eyes—Keith having removed the batteries again. He understands Keith’s love of fire—and he respects it, he really does—but he can only hope that none of this is a hazard to either of their healths.

 _‘Just settle down’_ , the world had told him, when he’d finally returned from the Voltron mission and grappled with the mere concept of leading a completely average life.

_‘You’ve suffered enough. Try to enjoy yourself a little, will you?’_

He’s only twenty-five, for Christ’s sake, and already, Keith is vying to put him in an early grave.

It’s a cliche arrangement, if he’s completely honest. He forces himself not to imagine Keith watching hundreds of corny pornos before he finally managed to come up with the perfect Valentine’s Day surprise.

There are candles flickering on just about every open surface throughout the living room—rose petals tossed about as though Keith had no clear pattern in mind, and a heart shaped box on the couch across the room that he just knows is filled with his favorite kind of chocolate.

It’s too cute too even think about, and that’s not what Keith wants him to be feeling right now. He’s strapped to their most comfortable chair—the plush swively one that Pidge bought him for Christmas last year—with his hands behind his back, bound wrist-to-wrist by a fuzzy pair of handcuffs that he’d love to have been there while Keith was buying.

There’s music playing softly in the background, not too quiet, not too loud. The words are a muffled vibrato, hanging low in the air like the smoke around them. It’s sultry and serene as Keith’s hips rock back and forth, carrying him further and further into the center of the room.

Shiro’s chair is close enough to the wall that he can brace himself against it. He resists the urge to kick off and move forward, to drag the wheels over the carpet and close the distance between them just a little bit quicker. In the stuffy confines of his jeans, his erection is just as eager as it is miserable—pressed down under the oppressive weight of his fly, aching and damp with precum from the sight of Keith standing in front of him alone.

But it’s not just the normal, everyday Keith, he reasons with himself. And it might be true that even a Keith will messy hair, wearing a baggy pair of sweatpants and one of his oversized sweatshirts can get him going even on the worst of days, but this was a far more sinister plot.

Keith knew exactly what he was doing when he set all of this up—when he ushered Shiro into this chair as soon as he got home and shuffled off into the bedroom, thumping and grumbling just loud enough that Shiro could hear him over the music.

He’s rid himself of that awkwardness now. He’s also rid himself of most of his clothing. He’s stepping torturously slow toward Shiro, long lashes casting dark shadows over his porcelain cheeks. His fingers splay out over his belly, smoothing out the material of the alluring, scarlet-tinted silky thing that Shiro’s never seen him wear before—and it takes him entirely too long to realize that the black fluff at the edges of the fabric perfectly matches the fuzz around his handcuffs.

Who introduced Keith to the concept of a sex store? Where in the world did he get the idea to put all of this together? And how could he possibly comprehend that it would be exactly the sort of thing that Shiro wanted to come home to, when Shiro himself had never even considered the idea of it before?

When Keith finally reaches him, his fingers threading through Shiro’s bangs send a wave of nervous vibrations down his spine. His other hand rests against Shiro’s shoulder, bracing himself as he raises a knee and presses it between Shiro’s spread thighs. The music lulls and fades away, and for a moment that feels like an eternity, they’re sitting still—the only sound booming in Shiro’s ears, their labored breathing, and his heartbeat thundering inside of his chest.

He’s finding it hard not to get lost in Keith’s eyes—in his pink, parted lips, the subtle curve of his cheek into his chin, the exposed stretch of skin dipping low into the neck of his top.

Keith’s knee presses just a little firmer into his crotch, and he jumps at the feel of it, gritting his teeth to trap the groan that threatens to tumble from his lips. Keith cracks a smile, leaning in closer—breath hot and dewy against his skin.

“Don’t tell me you’re already worked up,” he hums, wriggling his knee around a little, erupting a tidal wave of sensation within Shiro’s belly. “We’re just getting started, _Takashi._ ”

Shiro bites out a curse, sweat beading at his brow. He feels itchy under Keith’s gaze, fingers twitching with the need to touch him. His back arches against the chair, toes curling in his socks, his entire body on fire in the heat of the smoke and Keith’s enticing frame lingering so close but so out of reach.

Another song fades in around them, a beat low and drawn out, reverberating from his toes right up to his ears. He tugs weakly against his restraints. His cock presses even harder against the seam of his pants.

He almost snaps, almost breaks his perfectly calm facade, but as reliable and perceptive as always, Keith knows when to cut the games before things go too far.

His knee slips from the chair. Shiro doesn’t even have the chance to mourn its presence before Keith’s turning around, grinding his ass in its place to the slow, resonant beat. His hands are clasped against each arm of the chair. His calves rest against Shiro’s knees. He’s quiet, save for his breathing, simply pressing himself against the awful ache within Shiro’s pants and presumably drinking in the labored noises that keep escaping from him.

One at a time, his hands slip from the arms of the chair down to Shiro’s thighs—the weight of them, and the small prickle of his nails dragging against his jeans is enough to send another shockwave of pleasure coursing straight down to his groin. The perfectly sculpted, round globes of his ass press ever-firmer into Shiro’s crotch, lingering just long enough that his thoughts begin to swim.

The smoke settles in the air, a blanket of heat hanging over both of them. Keith pulls away gradually, slipping lower down, twisting his body around. His hands turn against Shiro’s thighs, dipping lower, drawing nearer and nearer to the fly of his pants. Shiro swallows hard, his pulse pushing hard and fast through his veins. Keith’s on his knees, dragging his palms forward and back—coming just close enough to Shiro’s cock to get a rise out of him, but never staying there for too long.

His eyes are alight with mischief. His bangs are damp with sweat, hanging askew over his eyes. Shiro tugs against the handcuffs again, his body begging to reach forward and brush them away, to grab Keith firmly and hold him down, to ravish him until neither of them can even remember why he planned all of this anymore.

The room reeks of a suffocating mixture of surely every single stick of incense that they own. Keith is reaching forward and unbuttoning his fly. He’s pushing himself up, pushing Shiro’s thighs together and placing himself on his lap.

He tips forward, ghosting their lips together and pulling away just as fast. His fingers are warm against Shiro’s neck, his own erection rubs against Shiro’s in just the right way.

They’re rocking to the beat, Keith is whispering in his ear.

“Do you know what I want to do to you?” His breath feels like fire against Shiro’s cheek. “I—”

He falters, and Shiro can feel the way that he tenses up in embarrassment. He contemplates the time that must have went into working himself up for this. He thinks about Keith rehearsing his lines in the mirror, red-faced and mortified, but pushing himself through it if only to make this absolutely perfect.

He can’t help but smile. He leans forward, pressing a damp kiss against Keith’s cheek.

 _‘You’re doing fine,’_ is what he wants to say, but he knows that this will only make Keith even more flustered. Instead, he rocks his hips, grinding their erections together through his pants and the infuriatingly arousing pair of lace panties that he can barely make out under the silky lingerie, letting out a breathy sort of groan and pretending that he hasn’t noticed the sudden pause.

Keith takes a deep breath, dragging his nails against Shiro’s scalp. He turns his head to the side, allowing Shiro to kiss him on the lips—a small thank you, maybe—before leaning back and rotating his hips to the song.

The moment is gone, and it seems as though Keith’s regained his confidence. Within seconds, Shiro doesn’t even remember that it happened at all. Keith is sliding off of him again, taking up space between his knees on the floor. He’s spreading Shiro’s legs, pulling down his zipper with a dark, hungry look swimming in his eyes.

Shiro bites his lip at the flash of teeth in Keith’s cocky little grin, at the pressure of his fingers not quite heavy enough on his cock. He flicks his eyes down to where Keith’s hands meet his clothes, all of the oxygen pushed out of his lungs as his zipper is pulled down completely and Keith’s tugging his boxer-clad erection out of the opening.

At first, those fingers are nothing but a dull pressure through the fabric. But then he’s pumping lazily, out of synch: purposefully, sadistically slow. Shiro keens, and he prays that the music is too loud for Keith to hear it. He wriggles within his bindings, a desperate ploy to free himself from his underwear, or maybe even to break the cuffs and take control of this situation once and for all.

He can already envision the dark red mark that will brand his wrist where the metal of the cuff meets his skin. The thought of that mark sticking around for a little too long shouldn’t exhilarate him as much as it does.

“You’re already so excited,” Keith tells him, his smile just as predatory as it is taunting. “Dirty old man.”

Shiro shoots up in his seat, intent on reminding Keith that he’s only a few years younger, before a tongue—far too hot and far too wet for its own good—is sneaking through the opening of his boxers and teasing at the tip of his cock.

His hands clasp tightly together, his entire body shaking with arousal as Keith inches forward and takes more of his erection into his mouth. He tips his head back, sucking in all of the air that he can manage, watching as the smoke floats through the air above them. The song fades out again, but Keith is no longer paying attention to the beat. He’s bobbing his head up and down, those greedy fingers grasping at his shaft through his jeans.

His eyes fall down to the slope of Keith’s back, over the red silk of his lingerie sparkling in the low light, to the black lace of his underwear visible where it’s ridden up on his hips. Over his legs, he’s wearing matching black stockings with red-laced edges. One of them has inched its way down his calf. Shiro tries to imagine the way that his erection is straining against the lace—wonders if the feeling of the head sliding with precum, held down by the light hold of the fabric is captivating or miserable. He would give anything in this moment to touch Keith too, as his teeth clumsily press against the underside of Shiro’s cock, and his pace wavers in that split second of insecurity.

Shiro lets out another moan, allowing it to be as loud and as carefree as it needs to be to make Keith feel better. He’s doing fine— _amazing_ , really. Shiro would have never pegged him as the sort of person who would even consider doing something like this.

Their sex until now has always been innocent—late at night in the dark, tucked away under the blankets with only the sound of the crickets chirping outside to accompany them. It’s never boring, but it’s definitely never like this. This situation is an entirely different ballgame than he anything he would have imagined was a possibility in his life.

He isn’t sure how he feels about it. On one hand, Keith is a temptress far more capable of dirty things than he would have ever given him credit for, but on the other, if he has to go even five more minutes without getting to experience just how nice that silk feels against his skin, he might start to go mad.

He can feel a pressure building deep inside of him. He jerks back slightly, straining harder against the cuffs.

“K-Keith,” he chokes, brows drawn low, lungs aching with the need to breathe so much deeper than he’s capable of right now, “I—please, I—I need you to un-cuff me.”

He’s expecting some push-back, maybe another snide remark about his stamina and age. He’s already bracing himself for another joke, but immediately, Keith pulls away.

He rolls back onto the balls of his heels, grasping at Shiro’s knees to steady himself. His lips are swollen and ever pinker, slick with saliva and precum as he risks bringing one hand to his face to wipe the mess away. Somehow, his hair has gotten even messier, despite the fact that Shiro hasn’t gotten the chance to run his fingers through it. He swears, sometimes it seems as though that hair has a mind of its own. _“Perpetual sex-hair”_ , as Lance would call it, and looking down at Keith now, he can’t say that he disagrees.

“I wonder,” Keith lets the pause sit for slightly too long between them, tapping his chin with his finger. “I wonder… where the key to those cuffs could be?”

This new coy, playful Keith is both intoxicating and maddening. He pushes down on Shiro’s knees as he rises to his feet, wobbling a little as he regains his footing.

“I can’t seem to remember where I put it…”

With one hand, he lifts the fabric of his lingerie, exposing the flat, smooth expanse of his stomach. Just as Shiro had suspected, his erection is tenting the front of his panties, stretching out the lace in a show that’s just as erotic as it is a little funny to see. He’s never considered that he might have a fetish for men in traditionally feminine clothing, but maybe he just has a fetish for Keith.

Maybe Keith could be standing here right now, wearing nothing but a trash bag, and it would drive him just as wild.

Keith’s other hand is stroking over his belly up to his chest. He lifts the fabric higher, tweaking a nipple, watching Shiro like a cat gazing at a canary through the bars of its cage, as though he’s just waiting for him to let down his guard so he can make his move.

And belatedly, Shiro notices the string hanging from the front of his underwear down to the top of his thighs. It’s red, just like the majority of Keith’s attire, tied off with a little heart-shaped key chain that’s swaying between his legs.

The key, he presumes, is tucked somewhere in the front of those panties. If it weren’t so completely illogical, he’d beg Keith to let him fetch it himself.

This is all too much, he thinks. Did Keith want to reward him, or punish him?

He’s starting to feel like it’s a little bit of both.

Finally, after a painstakingly long amount of time has passed, Keith’s fingers travel down his chest, dipping down the curve of his navel into the bevel of his hips. He glances from himself to Shiro, a presumptuous smile curling the corners of his lips as he takes in the calamity that he’s caused. Shiro knows that he’s a sweaty, writhing mess even after such a short amount of time. And he knows that Keith likes to watch him unravel—to tug at his loose ends until he comes undone completely, if only to gently tie him back together.

Those cruel fingers slide underneath the waistband of Keith’s underwear—far too stretched out by the length of his cock to really cling to him too much. Shiro doesn’t miss his hesitation once his hands reach the base of his shaft, but it’s short-lived. He bounces back from it quickly, the only indication that he might still be a little embarrassed is the slight color dusting his cheekbones.

He can’t let his pride over Keith’s newly garnered confidence distract him, because Keith is starting to touch himself. He can’t even tell anymore if the leisurely pace is more about uncertainty or just this newfound, terribly rousing need to make Shiro too impatient to think straight.

Through the lace, Shiro can make out his knuckles working the length of his dick, taking painfully long seconds to stroke the head, grasping loosely at the shaft as he gives a few lazy pumps. His eyes follow every movement of that hand, a lump in his throat so thick and sticky that he can barely even swallow anymore. Between his legs, his own cock is begging for attention—springing out from his pants and prodding into the warm air. At the tip, a bead of precum pushes its way over the purpling head, dripping down the shaft and pattering against his pants.

Keith pulls the key out from his underwear, and Shiro’s cock twitches enthusiastically. It wobbles in the air, surely even more excited than he is about the prospect of freedom.

Another song is beginning to play. He recognizes it from another spot on the playlist. He wonders if Keith didn’t select enough music—if he didn’t originally plan to torture Shiro for this long.

“All of the articles online said that I should wait until you’re begging to let you go,” Keith draws out, bland and matter-of-fact, as though he’s reading from their shopping list, “But they don’t really know us very well, do they?”

He’s pacing around the chair, drawing his hands over the armrests, up Shiro’s chest, along his shoulders. The lyrics of the song become clearer the second time around. The female vocals, strung out and needy, are filthier than he would have expected of Keith’s tastes. For another heartbeat, he’s left marveling at all of the work that must have went into all of this.

“See, when it comes down to it,” Keith drops down lower, fumbling with the key in the handcuffs’ lock, “I’ve always been a lot more eager than you are.”

The moment that Shiro feels the lock click, he pulls his hands apart. The cuff around his metal arm isn’t even unclasped, jingling around on his wrist as he turns in the chair and pulls Keith down into a desperate, hungry kiss. Keith doesn’t fight him and he doesn’t pull away. He clasps both hands on either side of Shiro’s face, opening his mouth as Shiro’s tongue prods his lips.

And they kiss for a moment, tangled together in a smoky, half-lit room while another song repeats on the radio. Shiro’s human hand wanders down to the front of Keith’s outfit, pinching the fabric and taking in how it feels between his fingers. It’s a little wet with sweat, but it’s smooth and warm. He imagines how it must feel against Keith’s skin. He imagines how nice it will look when he’s tearing it off and tossing it blindly onto the floor.

The chair creaks as Keith turns it around, bracing a hand on the armrest and climbing back into Shiro’s lap. He grinds down, a bashful smile that he absolutely has no business wearing pulls at his lips. Shiro reaches between them, pushing the panties aside and taking out Keith’s erection, pressing it against his own and pumping both in his fist. Keith bites his lip, forcing down a quiver of a sound, and finally, it’s Shiro’s turn to grin. As expected, the tables are turning fast, and Keith is more than eager to allow him to take control.

“Oh, so you can dish it out, but you can’t take it?” he asks wryly, leaning forward to nibble at the slope of Keith’s neck into his shoulder. Keith hums a moan, grasping at Shiro’s arms and wiggling in his lap.

“I-I can take it,” Keith murmurs, twitching in his grasp, “Give it to me, I’ll… I’ll take it all.”

The feeling of his hand working both of them together isn’t enough—not when Keith is still determined to say such filthy things. He pulls away, grasping Keith’s backside with both hands, relishing the feeling of it, warm and lacy and _full_ in his palms, before standing on unsteady feet. Keith wraps his legs around him, holding tight to the back of his neck. He doesn’t remember when carrying Keith like this became so commonplace, but he can’t say that he can imagine ever growing tired of it.

Even in this position, shuffling awkwardly toward the bedroom with Keith clinging to him like his life depends on it, their erections rub together in a way that makes it hard to focus on making it into the room. If he hadn’t realized that Keith probably forgot the lube, leaving it tucked away in its hiding place in the bedside drawer, he might just try to finish this on the living room floor.

He nudges his way through the door, setting Keith down as gently as he can on the bed. He takes a moment to pull his shirt over his head, pushing down his pants and his underwear so much quicker than he would like to admit. Keith only watches him, fiddling idly with the corner of his underwear—cheeks stained red, lips parted, eyes dark and hooded and so much hungrier than Shiro has ever seen him before.

He pulls the drawer open with a newfound zeal, digging around and shoving random items out of the way until he finds the lube. Within seconds, he’s back on the bed, popping the cap and dribbling slightly more than necessary over his fingers in his haste. Keith doesn’t mention it. He’s not even sure if either of them are capable of sarcasm at this point in time.

He reaches over with his free hand, grabbing the edge of Keith’s underwear with the intention of pulling them down, but Keith stops him, watching him for a little bit too long without speaking.

“Keep them on,” he all but moans, stroking Shiro’s prosthetic hand, peering up at him with an expression that frankly makes it hard for Shiro not to shove his cock back into his mouth. “I… I want to do it with them on…”

His brain short-circuits momentarily. He isn’t even sure if this is real life anymore, or if it’s some extremely elaborate wet dream. Not even the Keith in his imagination could be so enticing, he reasons. Nothing that he could conjure up in his head could compare to the sight currently splayed out on the bed in front of him.

With a nod, he obliges, pushing the edge of the panties aside and pressing a finger between Keith’s cheeks. Carefully, he prods one inside, biting the inside of his lip as Keith hisses, arching his back at the touch.

He pumps—slow and steady—adding another finger in time. Keith has brought a hand to his face, worrying the tip of his finger between his teeth, before taking it further into his mouth. Shiro thinks that he must have died and gone to heaven. Surely, this has to be his eternal reward for saving the universe so many times in life.

Keith is nothing short of angelic, even like this. He’s spreading his legs out wide, toes curling in his stockings, fist clutching tightly at the sheets. He’s arching and he’s trembling. He’s mumbling Shiro’s name in between moans.

And he’s whimpering, in the most overwhelmingly of erotic voices, “Sh-Shiro, please, just… _put it in_ , _please_.”

Of course, Shiro has to listen. He pulls his fingers away, lathering the remaining lube from the head of his cock to the base, and back and forth a few more times for good measure. Keith’s chest is rising and falling rapidly, his pupils so blown out and dark that they’ve seemed to have eclipsed his irises completely.

He takes great care in making sure that the panties are out of the way before he presses his way in, watching Keith’s face closely for any signs of discomfort. Keith’s own erection is swaying gently between them, swollen and red-tipped, quietly begging for a hand around it as he pulls out halfway, pushing himself back inside with a curse through clamped teeth.

Keith’s thighs press against either side of him, his feet folded together against the base of his spine. He doesn’t make a move to touch himself, only watching and trembling, tangling his fingers in the sheets above him as though to hold himself steady.

Shiro rocks forward and back, falling forward and catching himself with his palms against the bed on either side of Keith’s head. He kisses him softly, pulling away only to trail his lips from his mouth to his jaw, down his throat and as far toward his collarbone as he can reach.

He snakes a hand between them—first the fleshy one, but then he corrects himself. Keith has always made a point of asking to be touched with the prosthetic. He’s always been adamant that it gets the job done just as well. Shiro isn’t entirely sure how truthful that is, and he’s never understood why it’s so important to Keith that he touch him with that hand, but…

Sometimes, when he’s looking at himself in the mirror in the morning—stepping out of the shower, brushing his teeth, getting ready for another day—he takes an extra moment to look at his own reflection, to really take himself in. Enough time has passed that he’s starting to get used to all of his scars. Keith has kissed away the pain that he feels is embedded in that gnarled skin so many nights before—he’s taken great care in making sure that Shiro understands how beloved he is despite them, how beautiful Keith finds him _because_ of them—but sometimes he can’t stop looking at his arm.

Over the days, since the beginning of their secret affair in the Castle of Lions, to the day that they finally returned home, he’s started thinking of that hand as the one that Keith likes to be touched with, and not the one that was used to destroy. When he looks at it, and searches the recesses of his mind for the emotions that he knows that he should be feeling—the regret and the mourning, the humiliation and the agony—he can only find the memories of Keith spread out underneath him, begging to be touched, trusting that Shiro would never hurt him, no matter what ugly things he knows that he’s capable of.

Gradually, everything that he’s grown to hate about himself as been replaced with the memories that he and Keith have made together. In time, he wonders if he’ll have room inside of him for any insecurities at all.

And he wonders if that was Keith’s plan all along.

Shaking his head, he grasps Keith’s erection as gently as he can without being able to feel it. He likes to think that practice has made him better at this, but Keith never lets him know for sure. He’ll likely take that secret with him to the grave—if it actually hurt the first time that Shiro touched him like this, and if it’s hurt every single time since. He isn’t sure if he feels moved by this, or troubled by Keith’s own recklessness.

Keith lets out a short hiss, rocking his hips into his palm and pushing him deeper inside. A burst of pleasure explodes inside of him, his vision hazy and blurred, his entire being begging to be consumed by Keith completely—to touch him everywhere that he can be touched, to taste him, and kiss him, and feel him wholly and love him more than anyone else ever could.

His thrusts are erratic and sloppy, but Keith doesn’t seem to be coherent enough to care. He’s slurring through moans and little pleas, he’s telling Shiro how good it feels and to move faster, to push harder, to kiss him and hold him, and Shiro is having trouble keeping up.

He doesn’t even realize that Keith is cumming until his mind catches up to the images playing out before him—the spurt of cum dribbling over Keith’s heaving belly, the way that his tightness and his heat convulses around his cock so desperately that it had almost forces him out; that glazed look in Keith’s eyes, the lazy smile. The sleepy droop of his eyelids as he finally calms down.

He lasts three more thrust before he cums too—with a flurry of emotions nearly knocking him over in their wake. He can feel the tears prickling behind his eyes. He can feel the Earth shift beneath the bed, lurching them forward as he buries himself deep inside with one final, ragged cry.

Keith welcomes him into a clearer, more tired version of reality when he comes down from his orgasmic high. His hands are cool against Shiro’s cheeks, brushing away a wetness that they’re both more than happy to ignore. Shiro all but collapses next to him, gritting his teeth as his softening, overly sensitive penis is pulled out—but then Keith is kissing him again, and he’s pulling him close, and nothing in the world feels as important as settling down within the cocoon of his warmth.

He can hear the minutes ticking by on the clock—the muffled voice of Keith’s playlist starting over again through the doorway. The living room is bathed in its rosy, ethereal glow, spilling out into the bedroom as though inviting them out there for another round.

Keith is tugging at the handcuffs still clasped to his mechanical wrist, letting out a tired sound that must be laughter. He’s saying something about how Shiro locked it up again in his haste.

“You’re just going to wear this around from now on?” He asks, and Shiro’s smile is buried in his chest. He imagines that Keith can find some sort of reasonable answer in his silence.

“I guess that’s fair enough,” Keith adds, drawing out a yawn as he wipes messy bangs from his face, “Makes it a whole lot easier to tie you up next time.”

For a second, he perks up at the thought of that. He wonders how many times Keith plans to use the handcuffs before they’re retired to the back of the bedside drawer. He wonders what will someday become their new normal, what will fade away into the deepest recesses of his memories, which experiences, someday, will feel as though they were only a dream.

He lulls into sleep thinking about the way that Keith is always surprising him. How, no matter what might happen in the future, he’ll always be eager to confront it, if only Keith stays by his side.

He can learn to love this version of himself that’s missing a few too many pieces. He can grow to accept a universe that’s no longer in need of Voltron.

And someday, he will embrace this new reality, where all that he needs is Keith, falling asleep by his side.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! I haven't slept yet because this story would not allow me to pass out until I got it out of my head! I'm so sorry for... whatever this is, but I hope you liked it anyway! Shiro getting a lot of TLC, be it very gentle or... maybe a little bit mean is kind of... my big thing. The guy deserves all of the attention in the world, I tell you! 
> 
> Ah hah a ha... anyway... Thank you for reading!
> 
> Post sleep edit: I forgot to say: Happy Valentine's Day to everyone! This is my gift from me to all of you. ♡
> 
>  
> 
> [The title is a direct rip from this song!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tgvLDZ7VCb0%22%22)


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